


Patron of the Poor, Protector of Outcasts

by Tiikeria



Series: Golden Boy, Golden God [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Heisting for Good, They're like a modern day Robin Hood crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28854771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiikeria/pseuds/Tiikeria
Summary: “I am Midas, God of Gold. Patron of the Poor and Protector of Outcasts. Wherever poverty and the downtrodden go, I’m needed. And Los Santos was full of it.”
Series: Golden Boy, Golden God [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103621
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Patron of the Poor, Protector of Outcasts

**Author's Note:**

> Huh. Two fics in two weeks? Am I feeling okay? I also have a third planned, and my lovely co-creator Pchew has one going as well. We like this AU bit too much. Anyway, enjoy!

Gavin didn’t like showing off what he could do. The more you played close to yourself, the more people underestimated you. That’s how he got such a reputation as a bumbling idiot. No one suspected the dumb one to swindle you out of everything, now did they?

But something was endearing about the childlike wonder Michael and Jeremy watched him with when he used his powers. Even the smallest thing seemed to capture their attention. His fellow Lads were so curious about what he could do, and, honestly, it was refreshing. Normally people regarded the gold from his hands with distrust and fear.

“So, what can you make?” Jeremy asked one afternoon, a lazy Sunday playing games and just enjoying each other’s company, “I mean, with the gold. Like, can you shape it, or is it just a flood, like before?”

Michael snorted, putting down his controller, “Jeremy just wants to know if you can make him a golden Spyro.”

“I do not!”

Gavin laughed, but produced the aforementioned dragon in his palm, shining brilliantly in the afternoon sun, “Shame, that, because I happen to have one, yeah?”

Jeremy’s pure joy and awe almost made him blush, “Okay, I do really want a golden Spyro, holy shit that is so fucking cool.”

“You think everything Spyro is cool, though.”

“I’m a simple man,” Jeremy stated, still staring longingly at the golden figure in Gavin’s hand, “I see Spyro, I’m happy. Same thing with whiskey.”

Giggles erupt from Gavin’s lips as he tosses the dragon to Jeremy, “Sorry, I can’t make golden whiskey. That’ll have to do.”

Michael huffs as Jeremy cradles his new toy like a father cradles a newborn, “What about me? What do I get? How dare you gift this schmuck something before you gift your Boi something! Does Boiship mean nothing to you, anymore!?”

“Michael, no, Michael!” More laughter bubbled from Gavin’s chest, “You’re my Boi, Michael! Jeremy’s my Lil J, but you’re my Boi! I have something for you, yeah? How about this?”

Gavin makes a show of it since he had their undivided attention, and because he could without the worry of scaring them. With a flourish, he presents Michael with a small, blocky, golden sword. Michael pretends to not be impressed, but Gavin can see the awe and joy in Michael’s eyes.

“Gold swords are for chumps, Boi!”

Gavin pretends to be offended, all part of the games they all play with each other, “I don’t bloody shit diamonds, Michael! But if you get me some, I might be persuaded to give you an upgrade.”

“You can do that?!” Jeremy perks up from where he had been admiring his little Spyro, “You can make diamond swords?”

“Well,” Gavin hums, “I can make swords. I’m sure making one out of diamonds isn’t impossible, yeah? Just have to figure it out. We could make a day of it, lads! I could teach you how to be smithies, just like I used to in the 1800s!”

“I always forget how fucking old you are,” Michael shakes his head, “I mean, you talk about the 1800s like it was last fucking year.”

“I’m only 3000 years old or summat. That’s nothing compared to other Gods!”

“‘Only 3000,’” Michael mocked in a high, squeaky, British accent, ignoring Gavin’s whines to stop being a “smegpot.” Jeremy laughed in turn at Gavin’s pout, but not unkindly, “You old ass Greek fuck.”

“If you’re Greek,” Jeremy giggled, “Why the fuck are you British?”

“What? What do you mean, ‘why am I British?’”

Jeremy throws his hands up in the air, “You were born in Ancient Greece. You lived in Ancient Greece for a long fucking time. You’ve lived in the US for a few decades. So why the fuck did you decide to be British?”

“Because I lived in the British Isles for over a century, Jeremy! I came over with the Romans and never bloody well left! I’m probably more British than Greek anymore, yeah?”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“That’s not how you work,” Gavin grumbles petulantly, earning him a snort from the two other Lads.

“So you’re fake British. What the fuck made you come to Los Santos of all places? I mean, you went from European shithole to American super shithole.”

Gavin stretches out on the white sectional that took up most of the Fakes’ living room, sun streaming in the floor to ceiling windows making his skin look more golden than it really was. Jeremy and Michael settle down similarly, the quiet music from their abandoned game the only other sound in the room as Gavin collected his thoughts.

“Now that’s a question, innit?” He finally says, leveling them with a lopsided smile, “You know I’m God of Gold, yeah?”

“Of course,” Jeremy instantly answers, to which Gavin hums.

“That’s not all I’m God of. Most gods have other domains as well, like Artemis being Goddess of the Hunt, but also of Childbirth. Or Apollo being God of Medicine as well as Music and Prophesy. I also have other domains. 

“Akakios contacted me a few decades ago, about 40 years, really, and said he found a city that needed me. He had been living in the States for quite a while at that point, from the Northeast to the South to the Midwest. Everywhere, yeah? But he had never said that about any of the cities he visited. So, I knew he had to be serious to even consider that a city needed my help.”

Both Michael and Jeremy watch Gavin closely as Gavin turns to look out over the city through the windows. Eventually, when Gavin didn’t start up again, Michael piped up, “So what else are you God of that made it so you could help Los Santos?”

Gavin smiled softly, “I am Midas, God of Gold. Patron of the Poor and Protector of Outcasts. Wherever poverty and the downtrodden go, I’m needed. And Los Santos was full of it. Corruption was even worse than it is now. At least 80% of the population was below the poverty level. Almost 30% were homeless. Kios saw these people and knew I could help them somehow. So, I boarded the next flight from London and got to work.”

“Jesus,” Jeremy breathed, “You fixed Los Santos?”

“I still am, yeah? Until these people no longer pray to me, I’m needed.”

The three were quiet for a moment, as Gavin watched the sun dip lower in the sky out the windows, buildings glinting in the late afternoon sun like steel and glass gemstones. He still had so much work to do to get Los Santos to where he’d be happy leaving it. So many were still born into poverty. Too many homeless and alone. He did what he could, but he was one God against a society that didn’t care.

Gavin started when Michael finally spoke, the tone in his voice leaving no room for argument. Gavin knew that tone very well. Michael had made up his mind about something and wasn’t about to be swayed.

“So, what can we do to help clean up the shit?”

“I…what?”

“You heard me. How can the crew help? We have more money than sense anymore. And most of us grew up in lower-class dumps like Los Santos. Hell, Fiona was raised here. I’ve been on the streets, and it sucks major doo doo. So, how can we help you make this place a level above a turd?”

Gavin felt a swell of emotion for his Boi, that extended to Jeremy when he saw him nod in agreement. Both of them were watching him in rapt attention as if soldiers waiting on their orders. And Gavin…well, Gavin knew exactly what they could do. A grin curled on his lips as he pulled out his phone to call a crew meeting.

“Boys…I think we need a heist.”

* * *

A few weeks later, the news would tell a peculiar tale. Someone had broken into dozens of homes of wealthy Los Santos citizens, all in one night. Nothing was taken but the clothes in their closets, and the food in their cupboards.

Meanwhile, every legitimate shelter in Los Santos, homeless camps, and charities received an anonymous donation of clothes and food. The only note was emblazoned with a green duck and written in gold ink.

_Enjoy your donations. Make sure they’re used. We’ll be watching over you._

Of course, this didn’t make the news. Stories of the lower class never did. But that was just fine for the culprits; they didn’t do it for the fame or the fortune. No, they did it for the people. The people of their city.

It took a while before the police caught on to what the crew was doing. Sure, they still hit banks, but the majority of the stolen notes would end up funding an after-school program for at-risk youth. Expensive items would go missing, only to end up at a charity auction for a women’s center. And those few good officers saw what the crew was trying to accomplish. For the first time, the Fakes had allies in the LSPD; not many, but it was a start.

And the crew themselves seemed to have a new spark. Excitement in the air when they all sat down to plan the next heist, with the next recipient of their Robin Hooding. Jack heisted for a Children’s Hospital and they ended up with a small green duck on the new mural for the playground at the hospital’s campus. Geoff bolstered local AA and addiction groups, giving them the resources they needed to reach more people. Jeremy and Michael worked together to create boxing and wrestling programs for low-income kids. Matt and Trevor created STEM programs. Fiona worked on LBGT programs. Lindsay was adamant about helping the animals of Los Santos.

They all had their niche. And, together, they did their best to make good in the city.

Gavin was overjoyed, to say the least. To see the people he cared about the most helping him make the city a better place was everything he had ever hoped for. He still got prayers daily, almost hourly, but they were coming less as people had more places to turn for help. Of course, he would always answer the call, if needed, but he could finally relax after 40 years of doing everything he could to raise the city from its rough beginnings.

And he started to see a shift in the people as well. They were helping each other, raising each other from where they had fallen. Injustice was being spoken out against. Marches were organized for victims of senseless violence. People were donating more of their time and money to helping those around them. Gang wars turned into alliances against corruption. Ballas and Vagos worked side-by-side on cleaning up the rec center that bordered their territories. The Families extended protection to those too weak to fight for themselves, with no payment needed. Even Madrazo’s Cartel could be seen handing out food and blankets to the homeless.

Something had changed. Something had shifted.

Maybe there was still hope for Los Santos after all.


End file.
